The Genesis Of A Necromancer

Chapter 42 Tournament II

When they talk about a world of magic, such as the one Jack found himself in, the source of power was obvious: mana.

It was the universal energy that flowed through every corner of the world, an invisible yet tangible force that shaped the very fabric of existence. Mana wasn't just a concept in this world; it was the heartbeat of every spell, every enchantment, every magical feat that was possible. It was this energy that allowed mages to summon storms, swordsmen to strike with the power of thunder, and alchemists to brew potions that could mend the most grievous wounds. It bent nature itself, crafting power from thin air.

And for Jack, this knowledge wasn't just theoretical. He had immersed himself in studying mana for years. He had analyzed its essence, its flow, how it could be harnessed, and most importantly—how it could be controlled. The study of mana had become more than a mere hobby; it was a necessity. To survive in this world, one needed to master it, or at the very least, understand it. But one question lingered in his mind as he observed the duel before him.

"The chuch. Do they use mana as well, or is there something else to their power that others can't use?" Jack muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the two figures standing on the platform. His thoughts drifted back to the intense training sessions he'd endured, the countless books he'd poured over, and the whispered rumors about those who didn't rely solely on mana. There was something different about them.

Kurt, ever the talkative one, seemed to have no problem making his presence known, despite the adversary standing before him. His voice rang out, as loud and obnoxious as always, filled with the arrogance of someone who was used to having the upper hand. He grinned like a predator, every word dripping with disdain.

James, however, was the perfect contrast. Calm, composed, seemingly unshaken by Kurt's incessant taunting. But Jack knew better. James was as sharp as a blade, and underneath that serene exterior was a storm waiting to break loose. The kind of storm Jack had learned to recognize over the years—one that brewed when insulted honor or the people you cared about were at stake.

'This idiot...' James thought, barely containing his frustration. 'He talks too much. It's a good thing I paired up with him. I can finally teach him a little lesson.' The thought brought a wry smile to his face, though it was quickly replaced by a fierce determination as he drew his sword from its scabbard. Both hands gripped the hilt, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. The blade hummed with potential, as though it too were eager to join the fray.

Kurt sneered, his lips curling upward in disdain as he sized up his opponent. "Your aura—sharp, intense. Truly fitting for a swordsman. What a shame, though, that you allowed yourself to be adopted into such a hybrid family."

James's expression didn't shift, but a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. He knew exactly what Kurt meant by "hybrid." It was a jab at the church's eclectic mix of warriors, mages, alchemists, and even beastmen—those who didn't quite fit into the neatly defined categories of nobility or warrior class. And Kurt hated them for it. But it wasn't just the church he despised; it was the fact that their existence disrupted the carefully constructed order of the kingdoms.

"I don't even know why you were all invited here," Kurt continued, his venomous words like poison in the air. "There's no royalty within the church—just a group of orphans. Nothing special."

James's grip tightened on his sword, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort to remain composed. But inside, something was beginning to boil. He had heard enough. The church might not have royalty or noble blood, but it had something far more important: purpose. The same purpose that had saved his life.

"Shut up," James muttered, his voice low but brimming with an intensity that even Kurt couldn't ignore.

Kurt, clearly unphased, raised a hand. The ring on his middle finger glowed with an eerie, crimson light, and as it flickered out, a sleek bow materialized in his hands. It was no ordinary weapon. The bow had a deep crimson hue, and its limbs shimmered with an unearthly energy. Embedded along its length was a glowing green crystal, pulsing rhythmically as if alive.

"Let's see how well the church trained you," Kurt sneered, his fingers curling around the bowstring with practiced ease.

James, his resolve hardening, didn't hesitate. He took a deep breath, drawing mana into his body. As he exhaled, a brilliant white light surged from the hilt of his sword, flowing up its length and coating it in a dazzling brilliance. The blade had become more than just a weapon—it was now a conduit for his power, a reflection of his resolve.

"I will not stand idly by while you insult the very people who saved my life!" James's voice rang out, raw with the emotion he had kept bottled up for so long.

With a single slash, he sent a beam of white light hurtling toward Kurt. The arc was swift, precise—yet Kurt dodged with a fluid grace, his body moving in perfect harmony with the air itself.

"Alright, alright, does it look like I care?" Kurt taunted, his movements nothing short of a dance as he dodged each of James's light-based strikes. He leaped, twisted, and swerved with ease, defying the very physics of the battlefield. His feet barely touched the ground as he avoided one beam, then another. He was fast—too fast.

'He's faster than the last guy,' James thought with a hint of frustration. The realization dawned on him: Kurt wasn't just quick; he was in control. Every dodge, every movement was calculated to perfection. His ability to evade the light beams with such precision made James question his own skill.

As Kurt danced around the platform, blocking and evading the attacks with almost inhuman speed, he not only showcased his agility but also his exceptional reflexes. At one point, he jumped high into the air, spinning mid-flight to block an incoming arc with the body of his bow. He landed on one knee, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous focus as he drew the string of his bow taut.

Without an arrow, he released the string, and with a flick of his wrist, a long, sharp spike shot forth. It was no ordinary projectile—this was a metallic needle, glowing with a deadly intensity as it hurtled toward James.

'Such keen sight!' James thought, barely managing to deflect the incoming attack. His sword vibrated violently from the impact, and he had to dig his feet into the ground to avoid being thrown off balance. The spike grazed past his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

The watching crowd gasped collectively, as the spike shot past James's head with a killing precision. It was a clear message: Kurt wasn't here to play. He wasn't holding back.

"Do you think this fight will be as fast as the last?" Luther commented, his voice a mix of amusement and respect. "This boy really has some skills."

"Never doubt the power of a holy acolyte," Ivan replied with a smirk, eyes bright with anticipation. "You've yet to see a thing."

Kurt wasn't done. No longer was he merely dodging. He was striking back with brutal precision. Arrows, or rather, spiked projectiles, flew from his bow one after another, each one more dangerous than the last. The speed was staggering, the accuracy lethal.

James was doing everything he could to keep up, his sword flashing in the air as he deflected each spike. But they were relentless, and he was beginning to tire. Every movement took more energy than the last, and soon, he knew he would be unable to keep up without resorting to something more.

'I can only move them slightly… What kind of material is this made from?!' James's frustration grew. His attacks, which had once been enough to keep Kurt at bay, now seemed almost futile. The spikes weren't just fast; they were too strong, too well-crafted.

With a final, frustrated yell, James slashed his sword with all his might, sending a shockwave through the air. But it wasn't enough. The last spike grazed his cheek, drawing fresh blood.

The crowd fell into a hushed silence as James, bleeding but determined, glanced toward the girl standing next to Jack. She gave him a subtle nod—silent, but unmistakable.

'This is it,' Jack thought, his gaze never leaving the platform. The tension in the air was palpable. He could feel it building, rising to a crescendo. 'What is the true power of the church? And what does it mean for this world?'